


Keep Calm and Carry On

by blondeonblonde



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Case Fic, Diary/Journal, Espionage, First Kiss, John's POV, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, air-raids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2061303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondeonblonde/pseuds/blondeonblonde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>World War Two AU: When an injured John Watson returns to a war-torn London he feels helpless and alone. But an intriguing note in a grocers window leads him to 221B Baker Street, and his life will never be the same again. </p><p>Written from John's POV, it's a little bleak at first but soon the mysterious Sherlock Holmes brings light into the dark world of rationing, blackouts and air-raids. And maybe he's a little too handsome for John to stand, but it's 1942 and most certainly illegal, so surely nothing's going to happen between them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Careless Talk Costs Lives

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the 1953 novel The Charioteer by Mary Renault- a story about an injured soldier in WW2 who is exploring his sexuality through two very different relationships. I have used it to gauge attitudes and speech of the period, and tried to research as many aspects as possible to make the story authentic. I know it's a bit ooc for BBC John, but i'm imagining he has a poetic inner life we know nothing about!  
> Do get in touch if there are any glaring inaccuracies, or any terms you don't understand! I am English and have sat through many lectures, visits and documentaries about the war, so may very well include obscure language! Also if you are wondering the chapter titles are all slogans from posters during the war.  
> Update at Chapter 7: I have the whole story planned out, predicting 12 chapters and 20,000-25,000 words. There will be more on the case, but their relationship is going to grow too. -Stay with me!

_29 th January 1942. _

_18 Church Street, London, England._

I can hardly believe that I’m risking putting pen to paper like this and endangering myself by committing such scandalous thoughts to paper, but I have to have some way of containing my feelings and writing can be a good way to exorcise my demons.

Writing a journal is a habit I believed myself long since grown out of, a boyhood fancy that I banished as soon as my thoughts turned to more private and sensitive matters than cricket and prep. Now, I can’t help it – today I met the most remarkable man and I feel my life bursting open in front of my eyes. Colour has seeped into my vision where there has been only black for many years, and the need to record and reflect has over taken any concerns for my safety.

These are the facts: It is eight months since I was injured, shot in the shoulder by an unseen enemy, and two months since was released from hospital, received my discharge papers and found myself alone in a ravaged city. The war has been going on for 29 months. I have an aching shoulder, a limp and a tremor in my left hand. I am a wreck.

Up until today my life here has been grey, filled with pain, grief and memories I would rather forget. When you are abroad fighting, home is all you can think about. The longing for it eats you up. There are a million British troops out there now aching for these shores, using the thought of it to keep them going, I was too. But now I am back I find that London is a mess and the circumstances I am writing in are dismal, far removed from the idyll of my memories.

I reside in a tiny flat in a devastated area of London full of strangers who keep odd hours and rarely talk. We are the only occupied house in the street as the others all have severe bomb damage from the nightly assaults.

But enough of the past, I am here to document a new beginning. To record the moment a light has appeared in the darkness of my existence.

The day began in the worst way, as mine inevitably do, drenched in sweat, wrenched from slumber by the hellish warzone of my dreams. This particular nightmare focused on the recovery of my damaged body from where I had fallen in the scorched sand. My real-life memory of this incident is patchy at best, fuzzy, dusty and clouded by the haze of trauma and pain. In my dreams, however, it returns as vivid as the blinding desert sun.

I have little to fill my time as I am not able to provide much physical support for the war effort, so I spent some time this morning helping at a local shelter for those who have lost their homes. It is depressing work, but at least makes me feel a little useful and allows me to practice some of my medical skills.

After a couple of hours, my leg was playing up so I called it a day and started my long walk home just stopping into the grocers to pick up my rations for the week.

This is where I would start to talk about fate, if I believed in such a thing, as I stopped to look at the notice board outside the shop, which I usually deliberately ignore.  What in particular caught my attention, although I still have no idea why, was a small advert written on expensive, crisp card with details written in two distinct handwriting styles.

The first part of the notice was similar to many others on the board, a neat, loopy script succinctly offered the following:

_Room in central London flat to share with one other. Hot and cold water, fully furnished, meals provided. Must be clean, respectable and independent._

Below this was an address and the rental amount then underneath in a different handwriting, a more frenetic scrawl, was added:

_Must be tolerant of the violin, tobacco smoke and scientific experimentation and have a knowledge of medicine, crime, the sciences or photography. Boring persons or those of a nervous disposition need not apply. Men only._

I don’t strictly speaking need to leave my rooms, although I find them gloomy and depressing, but I did have a sudden urge to find out who might be responsible for such a strange note. It took me all of two minutes to make up my mind to go around and enquire and despite my leg, which had suddenly ceased to trouble me, I memorised the address and set off.

221 Baker Street was much grander than I had expected for a note stuck in a grocer’s window, I would have thought advertising in the newspaper would have been more the thing, but then there is a war on. It was certainly a step up from my decrepit terrace.

I rang the bell and waited until a sweet old lady came to the door. She introduced herself as Mrs Hudson and when I stated my interest in the flat she positively beamed and drew me inside to show me about.

Unfortunately the stairs caused me a little discomfort but I soldiered on and when I reached the top was rewarded by a most intriguing sight. The rooms were unusual, almost bohemian, with various exotic artifacts strewn about and a huge bookshelf struggling under the weight of several hundred tomes. I felt I could easily have walked back in time a couple of decades for there was none of the modern utility furniture, this was all antique and were it not for the blackout curtains I swear I would not have known the war still raged outside. It seemed a sanctuary, a decadent haven from the chaos of bombed streets and ghastly air-raid shelters.

I had only been half listening to Mrs Hudson as she listed off the facilities and rent, then I remembered why I had come in the first place.

“All very reasonable, Mrs Hudson. But what about those more unusual requests?”

“Ah, yes! He made me put those in.” She nodded to one of the doors off the landing, I presume indicating the rooms of the mysterious lodger.  “He doesn’t really want anyone else here, but the war bureau has asked us to fill all available rooms to help with the shortage, so I’ve persuaded him to do his bit. However, he is a bit…eccentric. Lovely, mind you, in his own way….but he’s not for everyone.”

“How old is he?”

“Oh, about your age, I should think. Perhaps a little younger.”

“What does he do?” I asked, meaning for a job. There was only so many things a man of conscription age could be doing to avoid the draft. 

“You’ll have to ask him that, dear, I really couldn’t say.” Curiosity sufficiently peaked, I was about to enquire as to when I should be able to meet this mysterious man, when the sharp sound of quick footsteps on the stairs caused us both to look towards the doorway.

I had been imagining a strange little man, a timid bookish scientist perhaps or someone from our colonies overseas with unusual habits from foreign climes. The man who appeared in the doorway was neither of these and he drew the whole of my attention immediately. A brooding Rudolph Valentino type, dark hair and closed expression. He was striking in the extreme, his curly hair, longer than I had ever seen on a man, framed his unusual features perfectly. His high, defined cheekbones jutting out into soft curls and his eyes a dazzling, piercing green. He was tall and swathed in a dark heavy tweed coat with a large collar and a soft blue scarf hugged his throat. The other clothing that I could see was as decadent as his interior decoration and certainly hadn’t been bought during the war, those trousers were certainly not made of utility cloth!

“Sherlock!” Cried Mrs Hudson warmly as the stranger entered the room, taking off his coat and gloves in a fluid motion a he moved.  “This is Dr Watson. Dr Watson, Sherlock Holmes. Come about that room of yours.”

He stared me up and down and I had the strangest feeling of being stripped naked. Not in the sensuous peeling back of layers that a lover would employ but more a laser scorching into the depths of my soul.

“Syria or Iraq?” He questioned in a deep baritone rumble, looking at me expectantly as I stood there stunned. How had he known that I was in the Middle East?

“Sherlock…” Mrs Hudson replied in a warning, exasperated voice, the sort you use on a small child when they are being tedious and it’s not the right time.

“What? I’m simply making conversation. Flatmates should know something about each other don’t you think.”

“I’m not your flat mate yet.” I answered. “How did you know about my posting?”

Sherlock gave a smirk and Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes.

  
“Sherlock, dear, if you’re going into all that I’ll leave you to it. Nice to meet you Dr Watson.” She gave me a quick but pitying smile and pootled off down the stairs.

“How did you know?” I brought his attention back to my question, desperate to know what trickery he had employed to know such things. I felt exposed but intrigued, this gentleman was becoming more and more fascinating by the second.

He focused me with another piercing stare, took a long breath then started a monologue that took me quite aback. His eyes glittered as he spoke.

“Your haircut and stance say military, it’s ingrained in your posture, the way you stand and talk, you’re a career soldier then and were serving long before the war started.”   He squinted his eyes and let them brush over my torso. I believe, to my shame, that I blushed at his glance.  “You’ve been invalided, that’s obvious. You use a cane but you are still in good shape, so it’s not so long ago that you’ve lost your strength. One shoulder is dropped lower than the other and your chest is slightly concave there, suggesting surgery. In that area a gunshot is most likely, average recovery period of 6 months means that you’ve been away from active duty at least that long, probably spent a few months back here too to get yourself settled. Yet your tan is still deep…. so somewhere very hot then. The only places with sustained fighting and hot temperature seven or eight months ago were in Africa or the Middle East. The North or East African Campaigns had only limited British troops involved so the Middle East is more likely, and the most prolonged fighting in that time period was in Syria and Iraq.”

“Amazing!  It was Syria, actually. Palmyra. How did you know all of that?”

“The same way I know you will be taking the room despite already having suitable lodgings.” He smiled slightly, with perhaps a hint of smugness. “I observe. It’s just a skill, like any other.”

“Amazing!” I exclaimed, dazzled by his brilliance.

“Do you really think that?”

“Of course, it’s fascinating, truly remarkable!”

 “That’s not the response I usually encounter.” He looked away shyly and fiddled with the buttons on his shirt. “Most people tend to be rather perturbed by it.”

“No…I like it, show me again... tell me how you know I’m going to take the room.” I was eager for more, and although I am usually a quiet, reserved man I felt entirely unabashed at requesting another show of his skills. Sherlock seemed surprised by this request but soon felt up to the task and completed his deductions without hesitation.

“You’ve clearly got lodgings already, an injured war vet returning from the front, any patriotic family in the country would put you up, and you’ll have a war pension to help. No. You were intrigued by the advert, you’re craving something new, a bit of interest, mystery. You couldn’t resist seeing who put up that advert……I hope I exceed your expectations, Dr Watson.”

“Indeed you do.” I replied. “And it’s John, please. It’s brilliant! I don’t know how you do it!” Then I suddenly remembered the strange requests in the advert. Looking around I could see evidence of scientific equipment, and the violin which was mentioned. “But what about _your_ expectations? You seemed very particular in your advert!”

He looked me up and down again and replied.

“You’ll do, I imagine. A doctor will certainly be useful to have around the house. Unless you have any shortcomings to discuss.”

“Only this damn leg I’m afraid.” I replied looking down irritated at the blasted thing. I suddenly realised how pathetic I must seem to a man so full of life. “It rather slows me down.” 

“I’m sure you do just fine.”   He gave me another smirk.  “Look, I have to go now I’m afraid, pressing work to attend to. Do feel free to stick around though and you can move in tomorrow, Mrs Hudson will let you in.”

He grabbed his coat and scarf, shook me firmly by the hand and swept out of the room, leaving me stunned in the wake of his forceful charisma.

And just like that I have a new home and although my rent here is paid till the end of the month, I’m moving in tomorrow.

Perhaps it is terribly reckless of me to choose to live with someone who can tell your life history from a glance when I have such secrets to hide, or maybe my treacherous heart simply wants to be discovered and to hell with the consequences.

I am supposed to be candid in this journal,  this is the purpose of its existence after all. So the truth is I was immediately captivated by this handsome and elegant man, and I have yet to get the image of him out of my head, framed in the doorway, swarthy and dangerous. I am not poetic in general but at that moment I felt the shimmer of fate upon me and I knew somehow that I was supposed to have ended up in that moment, about to embark on a new and terrifying adventure with this man.


	2. Victory Begins At Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets settled into Baker Street despite the mysterious behaviour of his flat mate. He watches Sherlock's actions with curiosity as he wonders what kind of shady business he might be involved in.

_3 rd February 1942. Baker Street, London_

I have been living in Baker Street for several days now and although the past few days have been uneventful, it already feels more like home than my previous residence ever did. Moving didn’t take me long. The army has ingrained in me a lifestyle with few possessions and a compulsion to travel lightly. I had one suitcase, my kit bag and a large tin of tea. My room is at the top of the house, unfortunate considering my leg but the lounge is perfectly suited to my needs so I rarely have to venture upstairs.

The sparseness of my belongings is in stark contrast to the rest of the flat which is crammed full of all kinds of strange objects.  In fact I passed a perfectly pleasant day on Monday examining some of the more unusual specimens. For example the detailed Victorian globe which sits on the sideboard, onto which someone has painted, in painstaking detail, amendments to countries and cities as they have changed names or borders.

I have barely seen Sherlock. He comes in for an hour or two to change his clothes or pull a book from the shelves, which he skims quickly whilst muttering nonsense to himself. I have yet to work out what he does with the bulk of his time but I am becoming suspicious that it might be something shady.

The thing is, he keeps very odd hours. Coming and going at all times of the day and night, and there are quite often strange people dropping by with notes for him.  He doesn’t even speak to them just thrusts his hand out and receives the note without a word before reading the message and promptly burning it in the fire. I have seen him do this on four occasions in the past three days, despite his hardly spending any time here.

Not to mention the frankly disturbing literature he has volumes of. Books full of poisons, decapitations, autopsies and newspaper clippings of all kinds of crime. He also has stacks of biographies, encyclopaedias, dictionaries and histories of London, a veritable reference library at his fingertips. It’s not just books. In a corner of the dining room I found hundreds of tins stacked in a box labelled ‘Tobacco Ash’, each with their own label indicating type, brand and scent, and a more alarming box labelled ‘Natural Toxins’ which I have not ventured into.

The most suspicious incident occurred when I came down this morning to find a haughty middle-aged man with a paunch sitting in my armchair like he owned the place. He had ferrety features which became somewhat sour when I arrived in the room as if I brought with me a terrible smell. I took an instant dislike to the man although he didn’t say anything further to Sherlock, even though I could tell they had been in heated conversation before I entered. At my arrival he simply stood up, handed Sherlock a wodge of papers and disappeared in a huff of tweed.  Sherlock lasted barely more than a minute before jumping up and also leaving the house, I can only presume to carry out some instruction from the mysterious man.

It’s all in all a very curious business. I hope he isn’t racketeering, involved in the black market or something even more suspect.

I didn’t even see him during the first air-raid to hit since I’ve been here, which was yesterday evening. Apparently he doesn’t feel the need to seek shelter. Mrs Hudson informs me he claims to be able to predict where the bombs are going to fall. I am dubious of this, of course, but I guess if he has been able to survive the blitz this far he must be doing something right.

At my last place when the sirens sounded we had to go down into the public shelter and fight for a place amongst the heavy mass of bodies gathered there. In Baker Street it is much more civilised. There is a basement flat at the bottom of the house which is mostly used for storage but one room has been converted into a shelter for 221 and our next door neighbours with beds, provisions and even a small bathroom which is a welcome luxury. It’s positively palatial compared to other places I’ve been in.

The atmosphere was calm but friendly. Mrs Hudson and her friend Mrs Turner from next door traded gossip about the other neighbours whilst knitting in the lamplight. The only other occupants were Mrs Turners tenants, two young women who I think work as secretaries in the Pay Corp. I didn’t speak to them very much, they kept themselves to themselves most of the night, clinging to each other for comfort as the bombs fell.

The only other thing that has happened is that I finally went to see Mary’s grave, and the grave of the baby that never was. It wasn’t as terrible as I feared. I just sat in the grass and read the gravestone over and over;

_In Memoriam_

_Mary, beloved wife of John Watson. Died in childbirth June 3 rd 1931, in her 22nd year. Also Charlotte, daughter of Mary and John. Died June 3rd 1931\. _

Although the ache of their loss is still with me things have improved so much. The memories are no longer suffocating as they were back then, when I had to escape by joining the army and living in foreign lands. I can remember her with fondness again, and thinking of the glorious days of our youth give me comfort rather than pain.

All in all it’s been very quiet, I only wish I could have seen more of Sherlock. I’ve never thought of myself as someone who thinks with his prick, far too wary of the trouble that might led me into, but perhaps I was a little hasty in assigning such significance to this captivating man, when it may be that I never even get the chance to pass conversation with him.

At least the house is comfortable, I suppose, and Mrs Hudson is a wonder with the ration book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short and melancholy little chapter, i know, and with such little Sherlock in, I hope it's not a disappointment! I thought it was important to flesh things out a little as next chapter things start to get going a bit more and there will be less time for explaining the details of John's world.  
> I'm almost done with the next chapter too- just a few tweaks to go. I don't have a beta, so please be patient with me, and any grammar mistakes!  
> Please leave any comments or questions, all are welcome.


	3. Lookout in the Blackout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today I have helped to catch a spy, been recruited to help fight the battle of counterespionage and been miraculously healed of my injuries. So why is it that the only thing I can think about is a couple of lines of conversation I had over dinner?

_4 th February 1942. Baker Street._

I take it all back! Scrap the last entry - It’s been a frankly ridiculous day! I have a feeling this journal is going to start reading like some Boy’s Own adventure novel. Makes a change from the pathetic fawning I’ve been doing so far, I suppose! At any rate I’m sure things are going to be anything but ‘quiet’ for a while.

I can pinpoint the exact moment the change occurred. I was sitting in the lounge reading my paper with Sherlock pacing up and down in front of the fireplace. He had been at it a number of minutes when the clock struck midday and he finally burst forth with a question, quite out of the blue, as it was the first real sentence that he had directed towards me since I moved in.  

“Good god man! Are you not bored yet?” He cried.

“What can you mean?” I asked, lowering my paper to meet his eyes.

  
“Well! Sitting there, drinking tea, reading the damn paper!” I could see he was agitated, but I had no idea what he was getting at. I just stared blankly and hoped he would elucidate.

“Come on!” He cried. “There’s a war on! Lots of lovely murders and intrigues and death to investigate!” His frustration had turned to excitement and he was bounding around the room, his voice lit up like a child at Christmas, rubbing his hands together in glee. He stopped, however, when he saw the inevitable glare I was giving him at such a statement.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that! You’re an army doctor, you must have seen some terrible and fascinating things in your time and still you craved mystery enough to come here. Surely you’re not content just to _sit_ there all day?”

“What do you propose I do instead?” I answered grumpily.

“Come with me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Come with me now, I‘ve got a case on.” He looked at me expectantly as if I was suddenly about to leap up after him.  I simply shrugged and continued in an even tone.

  
“A case? I don’t even know what that means. What is it you actually **do**?” I was still grumpy and I had the confusing feeling that I was missing some important information. Probably because I knew next to nothing about this man.

“Come along and you can work it out.” He was standing near the door now, still expectant.

“Why?”  

  
“It’ll likely be long and boring and I’ll need someone to fetch me tea.” He said this with a smirk but I honestly don't know whether it was a joke or not.

“Oh, charming! I’ll just be a portable replacement for Mrs Hudson then will I?”  Although I was pleased to finally be conversing with the man, he certainly wasn’t endearing himself to me with his manners.

He sighed and frowned at my lack of cooperation. He was clearly unaccustomed to not getting his own way. He regarded me coolly, tilted his head to one side and demanded my attention.

  
“Look, do you want to leave the house today and make yourself in some way useful, or do you want to stay here and contemplate the total meaningless of your own existence?” He had his hands on his hips and was rolling his eyes like a petulant child. “Either way, I’m leaving now.”

“Well, if you put it like that...” At his frank words I made up my mind. I was annoyed that he had deduced and shamelessly manipulated my desire to be useful, but then it was true I didn’t have anything better to do. Plus, even resembling a child on the verge of a tantrum he looked stunning. Green eyes glinting with danger and frustration. How could I possibly give up the chance to spend an afternoon with him!

I hauled myself out of my chair as he held out my coat for me.

“Where are we going then?” I decided to be just the friendly side of civil. Wouldn’t do to give in to him too readily.

Enigmatic as ever, he merely stated “St Pancras Station,” then strode out of the door.

It should have been a tedious afternoon, we sat on a bench on the station overlooking the main concourse to the platforms where we could watch hundreds of people making their way from the trains to the exits, but it was fascinating to see his sharp mind racing over the crowds of passengers. I had no idea what he was looking for, although every so often he would provide me with a running commentary about a particularly fascinating traveller, whispering their secrets to me. Some were so far-fetched I would not have believed him had I not been so impressed by his skills the first time we met.

I did try and engage him in conversation several times, asking about his work, what we were doing and other such inanities. Each time, however, he would just brush me off with a “not now” or “all in good time” so in the end I did just resign myself to keeping us supplied with the travesty of tea they were serving in the café.

It had become dark outside by the time Sherlock seemed to spot what he was seeking. I was becoming sleepy and my shoulder ached from sitting on the cold bench all afternoon, but as soon as he became focused and tense beside me I felt Captain John Watson snap out of retirement and my full attention was immediately engaged, all senses alert and poised for danger.

“Follow me closely and do exactly as I say.” Sherlock whispered in my ear before elegantly springing off the bench and starting to weave his way through the crowds. I followed as best I could and began to realise who it was we must be following. A stout middle-aged man, six foot tall at least, wearing a dark coat and trilby in the fashionable style, was similarly weaving through the crowds about ten feet in front of us. I saw Sherlock gesture to a couple of the soldiers who were flanking the platform entrances and they began to surge forward in an attempt to cut the man off.  Unfortunately he realised what was happening and swiftly changed direction, ducking out of a side entrance and onto the street.

“Come on John! We must catch him!”

Sherlock practically pulled me out of the door and we found ourselves in the pitch dark of the street, the blackout having come into effect as night fell.  I had left my torch at home, not anticipating being out this late, but luckily Sherlock produced one from his great hulk of a coat, its face covered with the obligatory tissue paper to stop it shining too brightly.

“What now?” I spun around trying to get used to the darkness. We’d surely lost him, he could have slipped down any one of the tiny lanes criss-crossing away from the station. “He could be anywhere!”

“He could but then I know where he needs to get to!” Sherlock tugged my arm to follow him at a run. How he found his way I have no idea. I typically don’t venture out after dark as in the eleven years I’ve been away I’ve lost all sense of direction about the city and the dark makes it practically impossible to read the street signs. Sherlock, however, must have some sort of internal map as he ran through the streets as confident in his directions as if there was brilliant sunshine illuminating his path. There were a few hairy moments as we collided with blacked out cars, headlights taped over but for a sliver of light, and ran into more than a dozen pedestrians walking on the wrong side of the pavement. 

We stopped at a crossroads and Sherlock pulled me over to a dark corner in between two buildings and pointed to a doorway at a large stone house across the street.

“He’s headed there.” He panted, quickly regaining his breath and scanning the roads for any signs. “We’ll have made it before him, I took us an expedient root.”

I heard a scuffle behind me in a small alley and turned to investigate. It was only a cat pawing at the wall, but as I turned I heard the frantic pattering of shoe leather echoing down the alleyway. I squinted, but I couldn’t see anything more than fuzzy outlines in the blackness. The clouds were preventing even the smallest chink of moonlight to shine. I paused, then my instincts kicked in and I found myself poised around the corner of the wall at the opening to the alley, ready to strike. I tried to signal to Sherlock but he had disappeared down another road.

I waited silently, the familiar beat of adrenaline pounding through my body, until I heard and sensed the hasty footsteps approaching. As he rounded the corner I struck. I smashed into him with the full force of my good arm, knocking him down. A quick glance assured me he was the man from the station and I further incapacitated him as he struggled for freedom with a deep blow to the head.

 By the time Sherlock arrived I had him pinned to the floor and was straddling his legs to prevent escape – a rather compromising position, it has to be said. I’m glad no-one was around to bear witness!

“Excellent, John!” Sherlock exclaimed as he walked over to where I held the man down. “How obliging of you.” He sent me such a blinding grin that I could feel the familiar blush creep into my features and was terribly glad of the dark.   

After that it became exceedingly confused. The soldiers from earlier arrived as did several official looking men and women in sharp suits who wanted statements and took the man away in an armoured car.

I still didn’t particularly understand what was going on but Sherlock was clearly working for these people in some way, although who they were I had yet to determine. They appeared to be MI5, but could just as easily been the MI6, Military or Police.

As Sherlock was busy I sat and waited for him on a low wall at the side of the alley, where I was shortly joined by a young, pretty woman in a professional skirt suit. She asked me several questions which I suspect she already knew the answers to, and then proceeded to question me about what I was doing with Sherlock. I couldn't be particularly helpful as I honestly didn't know what I was doing there myself, but she seemed to find what I was saying particularly distasteful.

“Perhaps you’d be better off going back to your old rooms, Dr Watson. Sever your connection to Sherlock Holmes. He’s not the sort of person you really want to spend too much time with. Bit of a weirdo, you know.”

“I’m not particularly interested what you think, actually.” I started to get up off the wall but she placed a hand on my shoulder to get me to sit back in place. Then she continued her advice in a softer tone.

“You just watch out for yourself. You seem like a decent chap, that's all, so I don’t see why you’re spending time with _his_ sort…”

She said it with a kind expression but it sounded suspiciously like a number of pieces of advice I had been given in Syria when I befriended a gorgeous young Scot called Andrew.  Even Bill, my trusted colleague, took me aside one day and very seriously explained “Look mate, you watch yourself with that Scottish boy, alright…. We all know you’re not a nancy, Watson. Far too brave for all that, but well…We’re just looking out for you, like.” I had fumed and ranted then that I wasn’t a delicate flower in need of protecting, and now I was similarly vexed. The memories surged back so strongly that I immediately rose and angrily broke away from her grip leaving her sitting on the wall alone, giving me a pitying frown.

I composed myself and moved towards Sherlock who was deep in conversation with a silver-haired man, although he looked as bored by the conversation as if they were discussing the weather.  I only caught Sherlock’s side of the discussion.

“I guarantee it’s him……doesn’t matter how I know…..yes, yes, evidence. _I am aware of the importance_ ….Search the lining of his coat, it’s very slightly heavier on the left side creating a pull on his shoulder seam, and I’m sure you’ll find the documents, probably sewn into a secret pocket…Come on, It’s not a difficult deduction.”

The other man wrote down all of this information and passed it back to the suspicious woman who had taken me aside.

“And who’s this?” The man gestured as I came to stand next to my new roommate.

“Ah!” Sherlock gasped then clapped me on the back and introduced us. “Yes, John! Lestrade this is John Watson. He will be working with me for the foreseeable future.”

“Working with you? That’s not…You can’t just…” Lestrade started to utter, and I was wholeheartedly with him in my surprise.

“Of course I can.” He handed over a bunch of papers. “I think you’ll find everything in order. Now. If you don’t mind, I rather think Dr Watson deserves some dinner after his exploits.”

He nodded a farewell to a still open-mouthed Lestrade and guided me by the elbow away from the chaos. As we started to walk away, back in the direction of Baker Street, he looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Well? I presume you have questions?”

“Uh?” I struggled to pull out and vocalise just one of the myriad of puzzles spinning around my brain. I settled on one of the more straightforward ones. “You said I’d be joining you?”

“You’ve certainly been useful tonight, John, and you can hardly tell me you’ve got anything better on.”

“But what is it exactly that we’ve done tonight?”

“You tell me.” 

I was starting to get frustrated with his deft avoidance of my questions. I decided to be blunt.

“I’d say we caught a spy trying to smuggle secret documents into the country and then handed him over to an intelligence agency. But then counterintelligence officers don’t just invite strangers to come on little outings with them!”

He gave a hearty laugh at this statement but maintained his brisk walking pace as he replied.

“You’re hardly a stranger, John. You’re Captain John Watson, 5th Northumberland Fusiliers and as of yesterday fully cleared by MI5 to assist in any way I see fit.”

I gaped at him. Was that an admission? Was that really what we had been doing tonight? Here I was thinking all I’d be good for now was a quiet and sedentary life, and I’ve wound up living with a spy catcher.

“But I’m injured.” It was all I could think of to say.

“Firstly, John, earlier tonight you were able to incapacitate a large, well trained man without breaking a sweat, and second, since you have failed to notice the fact, you appear to have left your cane at the station, along with your tremor. You may be injured but you’re not incapable.”

Flabbergasted I looked down in realisation as the truth of his words flooded through me. I had known there was some aspect of the psychosomatic to my injury, but…well…If I’d have known it could be cured by a bit of a run about in the dead of night, I would have tried it much sooner.

I was momentarily stunned but I quickly recovered when I thought about the rest of his statement which brought about so many more questions that I wanted answered whilst he was still in a candid mood.

“Oh, so you just stopped by the Ministry of Defence, I suppose. ‘Hello. Sherlock here, I’d like to request full clearance for a man I’ve just met because I think he’d be helpful doing some maiming for me?”

Sherlock looked amused, a sort of child-like grin playing about his full lips.

“Nonsense. I got my brother to do it.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes, the insufferable prig is useful sometimes! You met him actually, at Baker Street yesterday. He was dropping off the necessary paperwork.”  


“That was your brother?” He nodded. “Oh… I thought he was a mafia boss or a spymaster.” This time I actually elicited a snort from Sherlock, although whether for amusement or the depth of my stupidity I couldn’t tell.

“You’re frighteningly close on both counts. He’s involved with the War Cabinet, strategic operations or something. Practically dictates the Allied strategy.”

I gaped at him, utterly incredulous.

“And you stopped him in the middle of a desperate situation when we’re losing ground in multiple territories to ask him to put through my clearance? Are you insane?”

“Possibly, but more likely bored. I thought you might liven things up a little.”  He gave me a small wink, just at the very edge of his eye before turning into our destination, which appeared to be a little canteen providing mass catering for shift workers at the local munitions factory. He seemed to know the waitresses who waived us towards a secluded seat at the back of the dining room where we could speak relatively candidly without fear of eavesdroppers.  

I was still eager to carry on the conversation and my head was spinning with all of the new information and what it might mean for me.

“So what happened today? How did you know who you were looking for?”

“We had intelligence that someone had come into the country from Dover this morning carrying documents for the eyes of a group of Nazi-sympathisers and that they would be boarding a train to London. It was imperative to intercept the documents before they reached the group’s headquarters, but no-one knew the identity of the person bringing them.”

He spoke carefully and quietly, constantly glancing around to check that we were not in danger of being overheard.

“So you watched all of the incoming passengers until you found the one who fitted?”

“Exactly. He was later than I would have liked, it became a very tedious job, but I knew him as soon as I saw him.”

“How?”

“He was acting suspiciously, tugging at the lining of his jacket and glancing around, it was subtle, but I noticed.”

“Of course you did.”

“My suspicions were confirmed by his clothing, of course. That’s what clinched it. They were all made of German fibres.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. I was beginning to suspect the man of super-human powers.

“How could you possibly tell that?”

“Oh, I’ve made a study of the different identifiers of all European textile products. Plus I spent some time in Berlin before the war.”

 “Oh, yes?” I replied, my heart suddenly taught as I saw a chance to test the waters in a very delicate matter. I’d been trying to work out whether he shared my sexual deviances or whether I needed to fear his discovery of my past (or more likely, my current) desires. I could not for the life of me decide and I had been flitting hopelessly between sentiments about it all week; hope and fear in equal measure. After my warning from the woman in the alley, I was desperate to know more and here I spotted a chance for a subtle probe in that direction. I knew I had to take it.

I decided on my course of action and continued, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I once had a friend who lived in Berlin… in Schoneberg, on Motzstraße. You know it?”

I dropped the street name in casually to see if I would get a reaction and to be able to claim innocence if things went sour. I had heard of the street from a friend in the army who told me of its male-only bars and nightclubs, a place where those in the know could seek like-minded souls. I was taking a bit of a risk of course, but I suddenly felt a confidence I had no reason for.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at me and a moment of shared understanding passed between us, I knew he understood what I was really asking. Then there was an awkward pause, a silence neither of us was brave enough to broach. However the fact that he had understood my meaning gave me hope.

Eventually he started to speak. Slowly and quietly, placing the stresses deliberately so I could have no mistake as to what he was saying.

 “I don’t like talking in riddles, John, so I’m going to be blunt… There was a boy at school who was _like that_.” He paused again, once more weighing his words carefully. “Everyone knew what went on, of course, but one day he was discovered by a teacher who walked in on him in a compromising situation with another boy.”

“Ok.” I replied slowly. My heart was pounding with nerves and I was trembling slightly. I couldn’t anticipate where this was going but I suddenly felt incredibly vulnerable. “What was his name? What happened to him?”

“O’Dell, I think his name was. He was severely punished, I believe. Multiple strokes of the cane, then expelled and dis-owned by his peers. It was something of a scandal at the time.” Then he fixed me with a hard and deliberate stare. “Personally I don’t see why anyone would go to the trouble, risk imprisonment and public humiliation. It hardly seems worth it for some delusion of love… Do you understand what I’m saying?”  

There it was then, I’d exposed myself a fraction, and been caught out. He was giving me a warning, telling me to protect myself, or even more than that... _some delusion of love_ …discrediting the whole idea as an illusion, a phantom of a feeling.  Looking at the incident now I realise it could have gone a lot worse, but at the time it felt like someone had drawn red hot pokers through my stomach. I have heard a lot of unpleasant things in my time, but coming from the mouth of someone I admire… Well. I shan’t be making that mistake again!

 “Uh, yes...but I wasn’t….I’m not...” I stuttered, mortified beyond belief.

“No. Of course not” He waved his hand at me across the table, dismissing the idea altogether. “It goes without saying.”

His expression was unreadable, wiped completely clean of emotion. I desperately fished about in my scrambled mind for some other subject to talk about.

“So…um…Tell me more about your scientific experiments…”

We soon got back onto safer topics and chatted amiably for the rest of the evening, but something of a tension was left behind. I can only hope that we can find some way to fix it as I can’t stand the thought of losing this and going back to my dreadful old flat.

In summary: today I have helped to catch a spy, been recruited to help fight the battle of counterespionage and been miraculously healed of my injuries. So why is it that the only thing I can think about is a couple of lines of conversation I had over dinner? I am honestly going to have to toughen up if I want to continue living here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was a long chapter. The problem with writing journal entries is that I have to keep going til the end of that day/ part so some of these will be longer than others! 
> 
> This was sort of tricky to write as I wanted to make them talk about sexuality but in the books written in the 40s/50s that i've read it was mostly alluded to in very subtle ways (as in, I didn't pick up on most of it in The Charioteer till halfway through!), so I didn't want to make it too obvious. Hope it still makes sense though. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, I'm getting a little obsessed with writing this story but I don't have a beta so i love all of your opinions and i'll take them on board for the future!


	4. Attack on All Fronts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is bored and we all know how charming that can be.

_12 th February 1942, _

Well, I must say that Sherlock has been making it considerably easier for me to push my infatuation with him to the back of my mind as he has been entirely obnoxious for the past week.

Ever since the night he whisked me off on that absurd mission at St. Pancras he has been in the most foul mood. Baker Street has been filled with tension and cigarette smoke.

(He smokes like a chimney which I’m sure is to be my downfall as I have become just as hooked on the sight of his lips parted and sucking on his roll-up as he is to the tobacco. I may even have to start up smoking again, so I can claim to be staring in desire at the cigarette rather than his divine top lip. But this entry was supposed to be about how much I loathe him right now rather than how much I crave his lips on mine, so I shall not ruminate on it further).

Apparently this period of sulking is his custom. I have been reassured of this by both Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, who claim these black moods are a normal part of his personality. Although that doesn’t lessen my paranoia that perhaps it is something I have done to upset him as I still feel a tension between us after the conversation we had at dinner last week. In response to this I have resolved to be as friendly as possible, despite his mood, to try and lighten the air again. I can only hope he snaps out of it quickly as he is severely testing my patience.

Despite his temper we have not been idle. It appears that Sherlock cannot chose his cases as much as he would like. It’s good to know that at least someone has some sway over him. He was forced to take several cases, neither that he was remotely interested in. He seemingly took no pleasure from the proceeds as he had during my first excursion, except to tell everyone how stupid they all were (me included on occasion).

The worst incident happened two days ago when we were called to consult on a murder where the victim had been living under a false identity.

Sherlock barely glanced at the body before proclaiming that the whole of the secret service were imbeciles and that _anyone_ could see that she was merely disguising her appearance to stay hidden from an abusive ex-partner, rather than for any treacherous motivations. The fact that she was now dead did not interest him in the slightest, he pointed the police in the direction of the erstwhile lover and then refused to participate further.

When one of the officers working with us attempted to coerce more information he was given such an earful from Sherlock that I had to intervene to stop a full blown fight.

I marshalled Sherlock down the road some distance before becoming angry myself.  
“What is the matter with you?” I shouted.

“BORED!” He yelled in reply, matching my aggressive tone.

“Bored? There’s a dead body in front of you!”

“Yes, and it’s boring John. Utterly pedestrian. So _obvious_ what happened to her! I don’t even know why I need to be here. I should be doing something important! Not slumming it down here with this pathetic excuse for a department! How is this a good use for my time? Domestic violence…I…Don’t….Care!”

He stormed off down the road only stopping to turn and bark “John! Come on!” Confirming my suspicions that I am actually becoming his personal servant or lapdog, ready to attend his beck and call.

 “No, you wait.” I shouted after him. “What exactly is it that you take offence to here?”

He snorted before answering sneeringly.

“I’m merely regarded as a sort of dogsbody genius, John. A tool for the puppet masters of the service. I have a very particular set of skills and I get called to help with anything they are deemed useful for. It’s a pathetic waste of my talents but apparently I’m not trusted enough to be involved further.”

 He barked out an indignant huff.

“As you will begin to see, I’m only ever allowed part of the information, a glimpse at the context of a case. I rather think they suspect me of being a double agent. As if I could be bothered!”  He didn’t look at all scandalised by this idea. Merely angry at their stupidity.

“Have you ever asked to be move into another department?” I wondered aloud.

Sherlock seemed to lose his anger at this question, and instead started in a much quieter voice.

“I did express an interest in code breaking when the war broke out. I liked the idea of working out all of those puzzles. Would have kept me amused for a while.”  His voice became harsh again. “But it was very quickly decided that I was too much of a risk to be exposed to such sensitive information.”

He strode of down the road, once more expecting me to follow. This conversation illuminated things for me a little, such as why he felt so impotent sometimes, not allowed to do the cases he feels he deserves, foreign intelligence, undercover or some long running operation perhaps. It’s a shame for him, although I can see why they might not trust him, he doesn’t seem the most stable character. I wonder if there is any deeper reason for the suspicion surrounding him, or whether in the world of the military where obedience without thought is demanded at all costs, he is just too independently minded and stubborn to comply.

Even as I am writing this he is sulking. I am sitting at the desk in the lounge and he is scrunched up on the settee, his back to the room, huffing and scowling at the world. You’d think he’d be a little more sensitive what with the war raging outside, millions dead, homeless, injured and in pain. But no, Sherlock Bloody Holmes is grumbling about being bored.

“What do you _want_ , Sherlock?” I’ve just shouted at him, losing any temperance I once had.

“A puzzle. A complex one. My mind is going to _rot_.”

But what is this? Maybe he’s in luck! A car has just pulled up outside and is that Lestrade’s silvery voice drifting up the stairs?

Sherlock is up and jiggling about at the sound, utterly ridiculous in his dressing gown, which he insists on wearing despite the dreadful cold.

“Fantastic, John.  Something unusual, I can feel it! What is it Lestrade? Murder? Poison? Unknown identity? A double cross? Foreign technology?...”

I guess that things are about to get exciting. I suppose I should go and remind him to at least put some trousers on before he gets too carried away. I just hope this cures him of the blackness and makes things pleasant between us again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter, but the good news is that I've been doing a lot of behind the scenes work on the rest of the story, so it shouldn't be too long between updates.


	5. The Walls Have Ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John accept a new case.

_12 th February 1942:  Continued_

We have an assignment! A real one, or at least one which Sherlock hasn’t solved within the first five minutes. I might actually get to see some action and feel a bit useful again. I wait with nervous anticipation to see how it might unfold.

We are still at a very early stage in proceedings. After visiting us yesterday Lestrade whisked us away from Baker Street in a government vehicle to the counter-espionage headquarters in St. James’s Street, giving us an overview of the particulars on the way as well as several files of related information.

It’s a case of perplexingly few pieces of solid intelligence. Suspicions have been raised about a piece of furniture found by a group of ARP wardens clearing out a bombed out post office in Holborn in which there were several casualties. The gramophone cabinet was lying on top of some of the debris from the roof, which caught the attention of an eagle-eyed warden who contacted the police. It still had the new and expensive gramophone intact, but was otherwise empty. On further inspection the cabinet was found to have been modified with hinges added to create a false back and holes drilled in the sides.

“I presume the owners of the post office have confirmed that the device was not theirs.” Sherlock remarked, flicking through the file.

“They’ve never seen it before.” Lestrade confirmed.

“So you are thinking the hidden compartment might have contained a secret device?” I asked in response.

“Similar items have been found disguising radio transmitters, yes.” He nodded.

“…And that since it was found on top of debris from the roof it can’t have been there when the bomb hit?”

“Very good, John.” Sherlock offered patronisingly. “That is the crux of the puzzle, I believe.”

“So someone must have put it there after the bomb hit? But why?”

“We were rather hoping you might be able to tell us that.” Lestrade answered with a smirk as we pulled up to the offices. 

When we arrived there was already an official presence in the room, and now that I knew more about his identity the suited man seemed more scathing in his appraisal of my presence than he had before.  Sherlock was far from delighted to see him.

“Oh bugger off, Mycroft! This case was starting to look promising, and now you show up and ruin everything.”

“Nonsense, brother. My presence should merely lend weight and intrigue to the case you are about to be tasked with. If you will permit me to explain…” He tailed off before fixing Sherlock with a piercing, narrow-eyed glare.

“On with it then.” Sherlock had taken himself over to the office chair and was draped elegantly across it leaning backwards, feet on the desk, arms crossed. “I don’t have all day.”  


“Quite.” Mycroft gave his tight lipped smile/grimace. “Lestrade has I presume informed you of the discovery of a gramophone cabinet.”  
“Indeed.”

“Purely a curiosity, of course, if taken in isolation. Personally I can think of five possible scenarios which would explain its appearance…”

“Six.” Interrupted Sherlock with a conceited glint.  “I count six possibilities.”  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and continued in his steady manner without rising to the bait.

“No. The cabinet is not worrying on its own, however, coupled with our intelligence, namely a number of intercepted German radio messages that appear to have been transmitted from London, this becomes a matter of national vulnerability.”

“Hence your superfluous involvement.” Sherlock waved his hand over the area where Mycroft stood, his face wrinkled as if a lingering smell troubled him. Mycroft took a long steadying breath.

“I am merely here to impress upon you the importance of this discovery and urge you to follow the trail in a timely manner. I trust I have effectively delivered that message. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some other matters to attend to.” He turned imperiously and with a quick nod to the room took his leave.

Sherlock threw a blotter at the door where his head had been a few seconds before, muttering about how he was ruining a perfectly intriguing puzzle.

He soon sprung out of his seat in an alarmingly energetic manner, and began to buzz with the excitement of this new mystery.

“Some intriguing elements to this puzzle…” He pondered aloud. “Can I inspect this fabled cabinet?”

“Certainly, it’s just down the hallway. If you’ll follow me.” Lestrade led us into a bright room, empty of everything except the object in question, a solid and elegant looking wooden cabinet about three foot high and two foot wide.

I was correct in my assumption that Sherlock would become reanimated as soon as he had a suitable conundrum. He was bounding about, firing off theories and hypothesise in every direction as he scoured the piece for clues.

He took a few minutes to inspect the outside, running his fingers delicately over the wood and leaning closer several times.

 “Modern, contemporary design,” He announced shortly, “made using re-claimed mahogany because of supply shortages. Likely only a few months old.”

He moved on to examine the inside.

“Someone has gone to great lengths to alter it adding the false back to the record compartment. They were precise, took their time. I concur with your assessment that this was used to house a radio set. These hole would be for the headphones and an external telegraph key. I agree it is worrying.”

“Worrying?” I asked. I was not altogether following his fast paced reasoning.

“The existence of this item confirms Mycroft’s concerns that there is a foreign agent in long-term cover nearby. They took the time to buy and alter this cabinet to keep their radio set from discovery – they clearly meant to use it for a good while.”

“Then why have they dumped it?” I asked, suddenly realising what he was pondering.

“Now you’re asking the right questions!” He extracted a magnifying glass from his pocket and started running it along the wood.

“Ah!” He exclaimed in triumph, fishing out some tweezers (now I know why he has a coat with such large pockets!) and used them to pull away a tiny piece of paper. “There’s a fragment of a label here, most of it has been removed in the modifications but…It’s a Bourne & Hollingsworth label I believe.”

I shrugged in deference to his superior knowledge of London department stores as the fragment was so small I couldn’t make out any of the design.

We travelled to the store as our first line of enquiry. It was high-end, expensive and fairly new. There was a good chance they had a record of its purchase and we were in luck. No name given, but a delivery address – The Paramount Dance Hall, on Tottenham Court Road.

Unfortunately this establishment is not open on a Monday evening as so we must wait until tomorrow to visit and ask our questions. Sherlock is not pleased about this at all, patience not being his strongest suit, and when we arrived back in Baker Street he was silent and deep in thought for several hours.

I was worried he might be heading into blackness once more, so I set about trying to engage him in conversation. I still want to make sure there is no tension between us. I decided talking about Mary might be a good way to re-affirm to him that I dance on the right side of the ballroom, so to speak.

“I’ve been there before actually, The Paramount.”  I started, casually glancing over to where he sat, cross legged in his armchair, fingers steepled under his chin.

“Hmm.” He was still deep in thought, only a small portion of his brain focused on replying to me. I continued nonetheless.

“With Mary. Uh… My Wife.”

“Yes?” He looked at me as if to say ‘Why are you bothering me with this?’

“Well, I presume you know about her. You’ll have read my file for the security clearance.” I stated.

“I did see mention of her, yes John.” He turned to me now, eyes narrowed, his attention fully given.

“We used to go there as youngsters. I knew her since I was seven, you see. Grew up together.”

“John… If you don’t want to go, I quite understand…”

“No. It’s alright. I just…well, I never talk about her, and sometimes it’s good to talk, isn’t it.” I shrugged my shoulders, waiting to see whether he would actively join the conversation.

“Apparently.” He said dismissively. “Not a sentiment I profess to share…”

 “No, I can see that.” I keenly felt his discomfort at this personal talk. He was bristling with awkwardness and I started to worry whether this had been yet another bad idea.

“…Or been in a situation to try out.” He continued.

“Have you never, you know, had someone like that?” I remarked in surprise. “I don’t mean a girlfriend, necessarily, but someone who you could talk to, someone who knew you inside and out?”  

“This may not surprise you, John. But I do not make it a habit to have friends, female or otherwise.”

“What, never?” I uttered, incredulously.

“I am not an easy man to get along with, surely you can see that. In turn I have always found the company of others tedious and unnecessary.  So far you are the only person to attempt the perilous endeavour, and the only one I would not discourage from doing so.”  He gave me a crooked smile, which wrinkled his eyes at the corners and looked strangely out of place on his features, usually void of emotion.

 I must admit the sentiment shocked me greatly, not only had this amazing man seemingly never had a friend before, but out of everyone he had come into contact with throughout the years he was willingly accepting me, a broken, widowed deviant into the role.

I was struggling to pull my thoughts into order but before I could he decided we had reached the end of the conversation and fell back into his thoughtful pose.

He did not speak again and I left it another hour before retiring to my room.

What a woeful account I have heard tonight, I can scarcely bring myself to believe that anyone could have gone through life believing that they were unable to be close to another person. For all his faults, (and I can admit he has quite a few, I’m not that far smitten!) he is still the most remarkable man I have ever met and I simply cannot believe that I can be the only person to see that.

Even when I think of the pain I have suffered at the loss of those I have been close to, I am still grateful for the love I have had. My friends and lovers have shaped the way I think, the way I feel and the way I respond to the world.

Mary moulded the man I am today, she taught me patience and empathy and how to surrender myself to another person. To think of someone else before myself and put her happiness above all others.  

Sholto showed an angry young man how to move past rage and start to learn how to be content with one’s situation. How love can come in many different forms, all of which are valuable.

Andrew taught me to accept my desires, and showed me that loving someone can’t be wrong just because other people don’t agree. And that just because something is dangerous doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it.  

I wonder what Sherlock has leant from other people, and what I could learn from him.

I have decided, whatever happens, I will be friends with this strange man.  I want him to know that despite his flaws he deserves as much loyalty and affection as anyone else.  My heart aches with the thought that he has always been so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter - getting into the case part of the fic, have wanted to write one for ages and thought this would be a good opportunity. Don't worry, there will also be a good helping of UST and pining alongside (and maybe something more if you're lucky!)
> 
> I love to hear your comments and feedback, as I've said before I don't have a beta, so my spellchecker is the only help I get!  
> You can follow me at barbarismbeginsatholmes.tumblr.com for updates, but mostly silly photoshopped images


	6. The Walls Have Ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John investigate their first lead into the case of the appearing gramophone cabinet.

_13 th February 1942_

We set out for the dancehall early this morning.  It was a bit more dilapidated than I remember, but then that stands for the whole of London, now under a veil of brick dust and rubble. The building still retains some of its old glamour although its selling point these days is that it has two dance floors, one of which is underground which means that patrons can continue dancing even when bombs are falling.

We were greeted at the entrance by a delightful young lady called Frances Woolgar who introduced herself as the bar manager. She had blonde hair in victory rolls perched on the very top of her head and the bright red lipstick that every young woman seems to have adopted, both of which were mismatched with a dark utilitarian skirt suit.

She explained that the manager was out of town for the week, visiting his grandchildren who had been evacuated to the countryside, but expressed hope she would be able to help us.

Sherlock scowled and looked at her disapprovingly, so I endeavoured to start the conversation.

“We’ve come here to trace a gramophone cabinet that was brought from Bourne & Hollingsworth and delivered here on the 13th November.” I smiled at her in encouragement, but that was somewhat ruined by Sherlock cutting over me with a harshly stated question.

 “Why did you order a new gramophone?”

“Well…that was my idea. I thought it would be good for morale. It’s good to have something to keep us entertained. There had been a terrible air raid and we’d all be stuck down here for hours with nothing to do. I submitted a request the following morning.”

“And who decided on that actual cabinet?”

“That was also me” She answered. “I had a free afternoon so I offered to go and pick one out.”

She narrowed her eyes and frowned.  “I don’t understand. Why are you interested?”

“We’re trying to trace it, that’s all.” I replied casually.

She leant back ono the bar stretching herself out somewhat alluringly, looking every inch a pin-up girl despite her dowdy attire.

“Well, it’s not here in any case.”

“No?” I questioned, leaning into her. I knew it was not me she was displaying herself for, her attention had not wandered from Sherlock since our arrival, but that didn’t stop be being ensnared by it all the same. Sherlock was in turn watching her closely, although his eyes kept flitting to the doorway and he was displaying a complicated expression on his features which I couldn’t decipher.

“It was stolen, I’m afraid. About a week ago.”

“Did you report it missing?”

“No. It hardly seemed important enough to go to the Police with – they’ve so much on their plate.” She dipped her head and looked up through her eyelashes at Sherlock, “I didn’t want to be any bother.”

“Any idea who might have stolen it?” I asked.

“None at all.”

“Who locks up? And who else might have keys?”  Sherlock stared at her intensely, although it did nothing to ruffle her collected demeanour.

“We take it in turns to lock up at night, but it’s used in the day as a community hall, since the one on Victoria Road was hit. All of the local groups have a key to the main building, the WI, the Cadet Force, the Women’s Voluntary Service…”

“Has anyone disappeared recently? Any staff, volunteers?”

“No, not that I know of. You could come back tonight, you know. Talk to some of the other staff. I might even save a dance for you, if you’re lucky.” She winked at Sherlock and leant forward to lean just slightly on his arm.

“Very tempting, but we have other matters to attend to.” He gave her a quick, fake smile and shrugged off her weight.

“Thank you for your time, Miss Woolgar.” I shook her hand and signalled our departure.

We walked towards the exit, but as we rounded the corner Sherlock reached out and grabbed the arm of a young lad pressed tightly against the wall, dragging him with us out of the door. I hadn’t seen him there but I presume his presence was what had caught Sherlock’s attention earlier. He was a small thing with mousey brown hair and a spattering of acne. He can’t have been more than 16.

“You’ve been listening, and you know something!” Sherlock demanded. The boy didn’t answer. “What really happened? What do you know?”

“….I…..no…nothing…” The boy stammered, tripping backwards in an attempt to escape.

“Sherlock!” I yelled, trying to prise his grip away.

Sherlock stilled and looked searchingly into the lad’s face, who was visibly shaken by the experience.  Eyes wide in shook, his shoulders cowed in fear. I gave Sherlock my sternest glare and he reluctantly stepped away slightly, letting go of the boys arms.

“I’m sorry about him.” I offered, soothingly. “What’s your name?”

“Uh…Danny…Sir…Danny Ramsey. I’m the...um… Cloakroom Assistant.”

“Alright, well…Danny, seeing as you were hiding there I presume you heard most of our conversation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My friend here obviously thinks you know something about it. Anything you want to tell us?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” The young lad replied, going red and shuffling about. I didn’t need Sherlock’s tremendous skill to see that he was lying.

“How about, did you help steal it?” Sherlock barked.

“What? No! I wouldn’t… I didn’t…” He glanced anxiously around before continuing sheeplishly. “It…uh…wasn’t stolen…I…uh… helped someone take it away. It was an ARP warden, he had identification! He said the management had offered it to be used in the public shelter to entertain people during the air-raids. I helped him put it in the back of a van!”

“What sort of van? What did he look like?” Sherlock was back on the offense, prowling towards Danny who struggled to give up everything he knew before Sherlock could get his hands on him again.

“It was a… Ford box van, you know, like them small delivery ones, plain though…no lettering, and the man… brown hair, cropped short.” He edged backwards as Sherlock advanced until his back hit the wall, his speech becoming panicked and breathy. “He was small, maybe 5’6”. That’s why he needed help to carry it…. I didn’t look at him much…just saw his uniform and agreed to help.” Sherlock was getting closer, his chest almost hitting Danny’s when suddenly he stopped, a smile lighting up his face.

“Right!” he exclaimed brightly. “Thanks Danny,” he patted him on the head and added “you’ve been a great help” before turning and pacing briskly towards the exit.  Danny slid down the wall in relief as we left, his face cradled in his hands.

“What on earth?” I wondered out loud, that had been a surreal change of pace and I had no idea what caused it. “Where are we going now?”

“Morgue!” He gleamed, lengthening his strides in excitement so I was practically trotting to keep up with him.

“What? Why?”

“Honestly, John. Didn’t you read the information Lestrade provided?”

“I did glance at it, yes…” I replied, uncertain what he was trying to establish.

“And you just heard what Danny in there said, did you not?”

“Again, yes. But I don’t see what that has to do with the morgue?”

“God!” He struck his fist against his forehead in frustration. “How can you not _see!_ The Arp Warden, John! Danny helped a Warden take the cabinet and there was a dead ARP Warden in the Post Office! It must be the same one!”

I hummed in response as I remembered seeing a Warden listed amongst the dead, it did _seem_ to fit.

“But there were quite a few causalities, and the gramophone wasn’t even from there! Could it be a coincidence?”

He turned to me, an eye brow raised. “Coincidence? The universe is rarely so lazy,” and with that he stalked off, pulling his collar up to hide his smug grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will be some shorter chapters for a while because I don't want to overload you with case details. Also I'm going back to work tomorrow after my summer holidays so will have significantly less writing time.  
> Don't worry though, i'm committed to this! The next chapter is mostly written and will be up soon.


	7. Keep it Under Your Hat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a nightmare but Sherlock is there to help.

_14 th February 1942_

I will expand on what happened yesterday at the morgue in detail as soon as I get a moment, but for now I have something else to get off my chest.

I am usually pretty stoic in the face of deprivation, having been through some tough years in the army. But today I say damn the war! And damn the fuel shortages! Last night the temperature dropped and a blanket of snow encased the city. Despite desperate attempts to scavenge more we have only had enough fuel for one small fire in the lounge, which is barely enough to keep the temperature above freezing. All of the other rooms have become uninhabitable for the moment and even here my breath puffs out in clouds as I sit huddled in a den of blankets.

Because of this situation I spent last night curled up in my armchair as close as I could draw it to the pitiable fire, as Sherlock, who seems impervious to the cold, continued his inspection of the police files; Sitting or pacing throughout the night staring at his board of images and scrawled notes.

I don’t mind the cold so much as the lack of privacy that comes from having to reside in this one room. There was an incident this morning that I am ashamed even recalling.

I fell asleep to the sounds of Sherlock scratching away at his notes and had a fairly restful initial sleep despite the cold.

However, later in the night I woke again after an awfully violent nightmare, shaking with the trauma and retching with panic. I was disorientated at first, and couldn’t understand why I wasn’t in bed, but soon I came to a little only to find Sherlock standing over me gripping my shoulders lightly and calling my name.

He was knelt in front of my chair with his face pulled near to mine, eyes darting back and forth over my body, no doubt observing my pulse, the sweat that was rolling over my brow and my shallow, gasping breaths. I felt trapped at first, his arms caging me into position and I struggled against him trying to knock his arms away.  But he was strong and smelt of home, and soon I began to instead take comfort in his presence and let myself be held.

“Breathe, John. Come on, you’re safe… you’re at Baker Street.” Sherlock continued to talk me down calmly, his arms still solid on my shoulders.  

I am ashamed to say it had been a particularly vivid dream and I had tears silently cascading down my face. I tried to hide my head by ducking it into my shoulder but he held me steady, talking to me softly as I calmed down through my anxiety and returned slowly to full awareness.

When I felt calm enough I turned out of his hold, frightfully embarrassed.  He prised himself up off the floor, stretching his no doubt sore limbs, then perched himself on the arm of my chair. Still close, my left shoulder was pressed into his torso and his arm stretched behind my head onto the back of the chair, but I could now look away from his piercing eyes, so the position felt less intimate.

“I’m so sorry.” I stammered, turning away my face.

“Nonsense. Nothing to be ashamed of.” He stated, then added in a softer voice. “Do you often get nightmares?”

“I’m afraid I do. Though certainly less now that I’m here.” This is true, the house seems to have a calming influence on my frayed psyche.

“Well, I suppose you must have seen some rather terrible scenes in your time.”

I did not want to dwell on the lingering memories and perhaps he sensed as much. He asked whether perhaps his playing the violin would prove soothing. I replied in the affirmative, and he played the uplifting end of his repertoire until it was light enough to continue with our investigations. I was terribly grateful not to have to discuss this weakness of mine further.

Thinking about it now he was uncharacteristically tender throughout the whole episode, I had never imagined he could be so gentle. In fact I can still feel the soft press of his hand on my arm as he held me, and hear the low rumble of his voice and he whispered my name. Even though I am dreadfully embarrassed by the event, I must admit it has been a long time since I have felt so cared for.


	8. Keep Your Trap Shut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More case, more John pining.

_14 th February – continued._

I have finally found some time to continue my narrative of the case starting after we left the dancehall for the morgue. These are the day’s events before my nightmare crisis:

We met Lestrade at St. Bart’s Hospital where Sherlock briefed him on the information we had gathered at the dance hall. He then requested access to the Warden’s body and asked for statements to be taken from all of the staff and volunteers at the hall.

Lestrade seemed impressed with our progress and escorted us down to the morgue where a sweet young girl called Molly showed us the body. It was strange seeing a woman down there, during my training it was all fusty old men, cantankerous and utterly unhelpful.

The war seems to have done some good in this respect. Letting women take on these masculine jobs. Seems to be a massive boon for the country as well as morale. I know Harriet is enjoying her new freedom out on the farm with the other land girls and is being allowed to indulge in a tomboy side that has always been frowned upon and which our mother was always trying to train out of her.  

Molly seemed to know Sherlock.  “What is it today then? I haven’t got to this one yet. It’s a bit busy down here these days!” She explained, grinning happily, which struck me as a little insensitive seeing as the reason for the boom in business was the death of hundreds of civilians.

The body she pulled out was horribly disfigured. Lestrade noticeably flinched and I was for once glad of the horrors I had seen on the battlefield. His face had been badly crushed and a number of his bones stuck out at odd angles from his clothing.  He was covered in blood, rubble and brick dust matted together in the fibres of his uniform and hair.

Sherlock bent over the body sweeping his eyes over the outer layers of fabric, then took out his magnifying glass and moved closer, just like he had done with the cabinet. God, he looks magnificent when he is in the midst of a puzzle. His eyes gleam the most dazzling green and sparkle like diamonds. He is majestic, surveying the room with his command, drawing completely the attention of the room.

I tried not to watch him too much, instead sifted through the paperwork attached to the body and read the sparse intake information.

_Unidentified male, approximately 40, found crushed under rubble at bombsite._

“Unidentified?” I questioned. I knew he was in a bad way but he had a uniform on, surely someone was missing him.

“Well, he was pretty badly crushed by the building, you can see that. His face is unrecognisable. We alerted ARP units in the area but so far no-one has been reported missing.” Lestrade answered.

“Nor will they be.” Sherlock stated, looking at the man’s shoes through his pocket magnifying glass.

“I beg your pardon?” Lestrade leant closer to him, hands braced on the table.

“Well…” He rolled his eyes in condescension. “Look at his shoes!”

“What about them?”

  
“They’re not regulation are they? Similar, but not exact, different tread pattern to the official uniform. He doesn’t have unusual shaped feet, so why doesn’t he have the regulation footwear? All of his uniform is genuine, regulation, but not his boots. Probability is he stole these from someone who was the same body size but had different sized feet. A common problem.”

I snorted with suppressed laughter, ‘a common problem?’ Only to those with the habit of stealing other peoples clothing!  Sherlock gave me a scathing look so I trained my gaze back to the body and asked for confirmation that I was following the correct thought process.

“So he’s not a real Warden?”

“I doubt it. Manual labourer judging by his hands, strange for a small man. There’s the smell of petrol too, so drives often (perhaps that van the cloakroom assistant told us about). He has a couple of tattoos, one of which looks like it was done in prison. Been inside then. Petty criminal I’d guess. Using the guise of the ARP Warden to break into buildings and relieve them of their valuables.” He smirked at the room, smug and proud at his string of logic.

“That takes cheek, I’ll give him that!” Lestrade chuckled but ran his hands across his forehead and through his hair, clearly trying to process this information.

“Bit of a coincidence then, him being crushed in a building an object he previously stole was dumped in?” Lestrade continued to rub his face, concentrating hard.

“Oh, that’s not a coincidence.”

“No?”

 “No. There’s something else. Obvious really. John, what do you think?” He gestured for me to take a look at the body.

I bent over the bench and studied the corpse in detail. I felt distinctly as if I were sitting my medical exams again, and was terrified of appearing stupid. Then I realised what it was that was wrong.

“Good Heavens, you’re right!” I proclaimed. “He’d been asphyxiated not crushed. It’s hard to see the signs as his features are so mangled, but there is bruising to the neck consistent with finger marks and a small area of petechial haemorrhage on his throat. It’s the same as the cabinet! He was placed in the bomb site afterwards!”

  
I looked up at him expectantly. He gave me an almost imperceptible smile just in his eyes, so that they brightened for a second.   
“Yes. He wasn’t killed here, brick dust on his shoes is not from the Post Office. He was killed elsewhere and dumped there after the building collapsed. Very convenient place to hide a body, amongst the dead.  Hidden in plain sight.”

“So, what you’re saying is someone posed as an ARP Warden, went to the dancehall and stole the gramophone cabinet, then was killed, and dumped in the wreck of a bomb site along with the cabinet. But why?” I asked.

“Hmmm. Several possibilities, none of which make much sense right now.” He paced around the body for several minutes, being carefully watched by myself and Molly.

Throughout the afternoon I noticed that Molly was making eyes at him over the body. Not the most romantic location but it seems to me that if Sherlock were interested anywhere it would be in the morgue. He didn’t seem to be at all interested however, barely even noticed her. For the second time in as many hours he seems completely unaffected by a woman of no inconsiderable allure. I have to conclude that that he must find the whole business of carnal desire beneath him, as he ignores these women and has been clear about his aversion to the alternative. I don’t know if this makes my situation easier to stomach or more difficult.

Whatever his proclivities I can’t help feel we are becoming closer. It shocks me sometimes when I think how reckless I am being indulging in a friendship I know can only lead in heartbreak. I used to be faultlessly good at self-preservation, but things seem to have degenerated in that area since Sherlock came into my life.

After Sherlock took a further half hour to examine the body in more detail we returned to Baker Street. He brought with him a number of samples from the uniform that he wanted to analyse, and he has been stuck at his desk all day running all sorts of experiments. It has therefore been a quiet and pleasant day, which has suited me after the upsetting emotions left by my nightmare. I suspect I should get an early night tonight, when I asked Sherlock what his plans were for the morning the gleam playing in his eyes makes me imagine it will be something more energetic than today.

Thankfully the temperature has climbed several degrees so I am going to brave the cold of my own room tonight.   Sherlock has taken to referring to my room as ‘the frozen north’ in his charming chuckle, as it is up in the attic and draughty as hell. In turn the lounge has become ‘the Sahara’ for its relative warmth. To be honest I hadn’t expected that Sherlock would be so amusing. He seemed so forceful and brooding when we first met and then the boredom struck for a week. I thought perhaps he was always so severe. Perhaps it is a sign that he’s warming up to me a little, enjoying my company. I certainly enjoy his when it is like this although I have no idea whether it is a temporary reprise before he sinks back under a dark mood, or whether he has turned a corner with me and now feels at ease.

 

 


	9. This Time We Are All in the Front Line

_15 th February _

I was correct in my assumption that today would be filled with greater excitement. I say ‘excitement’, perhaps I should say ‘illegal activity and danger’. Sherlock had a breakthrough in the early hours of the morning, so by the time I awoke he was eager to set off.

After analysing the brick dust found on the Warden’s shoes he concluded that the dust was from an Edwardian brick manufactured in Leicestershire, commonly used in commercial premises, usually warehouses, at the turn of the century. He was then able to use his incredible internal map to pick out possible venues in the vicinity of the bomb site.

“Incredible!” I breathed amazed, as he recited this development to me. I cannot hide how impressive I find his skills, and the wonky smile he gave me in response makes me think he doesn’t mind a little praise. He gave me a list of premises to visit to see if I could spot the van, any other stolen goods or if there was any signs of a struggle.

He concluded that the premises would be empty because it was a Sunday, so I would at most have to contend with a little breaking and entering. I should have been concerned at this but honestly it was probably the least criminal thing I’d done all month.

So this might be my last entry if I get arrested for breaking and entering. I’m not entirely sure how much I’ll be protected by MI5 if I’m caught. I suspect I’d get forgotten about pretty damn quickly.

We have not had any further contact with Mycroft except for a rather odd occurrence yesterday. We came back from the Morgue to a Telegram addressed to Sherlock. He bade me open it but when I read the message within he reached over and snatched it out of my hands, tore it to pieces and threw it in the fire. All the while muttering and growling.

“Bloody Mycroft! Always meddling. What does he think I’m going to _do_? I’m always bloody careful!” He has continued to grumble about it throughout the evening although I’m damned if I know what he objected to. The message simply read ‘BE CAREFUL’ which I’m not sure requires a fraternal diatribe, but then I don’t understand their relationship in the slightest.

_15 th February - continued _

Bloody hell, what a night!

I had just turned in for the evening after a fruitless day searching abandoned buildings when the sirens started. Sherlock was still out god-knows-where tracking down the mysterious warehouse. I knew better by now than to expect him home just because of a few bombs, so I gathered my blankets and headed down to the basement where the others were already assembled. Thankfully it wasn’t a heavy raid and it was only a couple of hours before the all clear sounded and I returned, mind fogged by exhaustion, to 221B.

I expected the flat to be as empty as when I had left it so it gave me quite a shock to open the door to Sherlock hunched over in a chair, grasping his left arm which I noticed with horror was steadily oozing blood. “Sherlock!” I cried and hurried over to the poor man, and asked, rather sarcastically I’m ashamed to say, “What on earth happened? No. Don’t tell me….bomb?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. Do you think I’d be sitting here so calmly if I’d been anywhere near a bomb blast? Do think before you speak.” His words, although sharp, were underlined by a tension in his features and a slight tremble of his limbs, so I guessed that the pain must be ghastly. He looked away from me and admitted that the injury had in fact been caused by the falling remnants of a Messerschmitt that had been shot down over the city. A shard of the metal casing of the plane having sliced his arm as it crashed to earth.

I ran to fetch my medical things and knelt before him to examine the wound. I carefully peeled away his long fingers where they gripped the damaged area and then stripped him of his shirt. It wasn’t a terrible injury, but it needed some attention and there were a number of small cuts surrounding it.

“Where’s your coat?” I asked to distract him as I examined his arm.

“I was in disguise. Dock worker.”

“Shame, it would have protected you somewhat.”

“Fortunate, in fact. It would have ruined the coat.” I smiled despite myself, I knew how fond he was of the garment.

I pulled a small shard of metal from the wound, there were still several fragments pushed beneath the skin.

“We need to clean this out – can you make it to the bathroom?”

“I have a slight arm injury, John, I’m not crippled!” He sent me a patronising glare but again his tone was punctured by a slight swaying motion as he staggered across the hallway.

Halfway there I realised my hand was pressed into his back. I withdrew it carefully and stepped away a fraction.

I sat him on the wooden lid of the lavatory whilst I washed the wound.

“Did you at least find the warehouse?” I asked, again wanting to provide a distraction. He started to recall his day’s adventures but before long became silent.

It took a while to clean and bandage the wide area and I had to concentrate in the dim light to make sure it was done thoroughly. For the most part I was quiet too, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the intruding sensations of having my hands on his pale, creamy skin… that I was kneeling between his open legs…that his bare chest was just inches away from me…

I tried my hardest not to focus on these things, even though my body was vibrating with desire and adrenaline. It did not escape my notice that only a few days ago I was the one being comforted. Now that it was my turn to offer support, I was determined to do it properly. I was trying to be professional and it was taking all of my skills, so I kept my eyes firmly on the job in hand. By the time I looked up at him again he had lost his manic energy and had started to crash after his adrenaline had seeped away. He did look more relaxed though, had given into my ministrations rather than fighting them. His shoulders had drooped and his head was tilted backwards, leaning on the wall, exposing his long bare neck. His eyes were closed but pressed together tightly. It would only take the slightest movement from me to close the gap between us, and he was so unaware of his surroundings he might not even notice…

“Sherlock…” I patted his leg in what I hoped was a friendly manner. “All done.”

His only response was a slight hum, until with great effort his unusual green/blue eyes fluttered open and he blinked at the light.

He swayed forward dramatically and ended up with his head pressed into my neck. It was both heaven and hell for me, to have his face tucked into my collarbone, lips pressed to the skin of my neck, his breath sending waves of goosebumps under the collar of my shirt. I had to get him away from me before the animal in me escaped and I would show how aroused I was by the contact. I brought my hands up to his shoulders and prised his body away from mine.  

“Sherlock, are you sure you are not hurt anywhere else?” He nodded lazily.

“How long since you last slept?” It must be a couple of days at least. He gave a half-hearted shrug which confirmed my suspicions.

“Right, well in order to mend, you need sleep – so come on.” I helped him prise himself off the seat and into his adjoining rooms – thankfully only a few feet away. He started to mutter as he stood up gingerly.

“I’ve got to go and…”

“No, Sherlock. Your body has had a shock, you’re hurt and you don’t have the energy reserves to fight it. Look at you, you’re shaking, you’re exhausted, you’ll be good as new in the morning but for now you need rest.” I gave him my sternest Captain Watson face and held out the covers.

“Yes, Doctor.” He grumbled but slid beneath all the same.

As he was falling asleep, his body giving in almost immediately to its needs, I heard a muttered “thank you” which sent a bloom of warmth through me. He is not the sort of man who admits he is in need, so for this to be acknowledged means a lot.

It was odd seeing him lying there asleep, innocent and still. He was so different from his normal self. This evening I feel like I have seen a glimpse into the hidden Sherlock. The one that lives under all of the sarcasm and narcissism. I’m sure it’s there. I see glimpses of it now and then, in the way he greets Mrs Hudson or the way he asks me for my opinion on cases. It’s over quicker than a flash of lightening but shines just as brightly.  

I had the terrible urge to climb in after him and just hold him. I wonder if anyone has ever done that before. Given him comfort when he’s been hurt.

I stood up, patted him on the hip to signal my departure and left him in the grips of slumber. I must admit I took myself in hand when I returned to my room and the thought of his lean body stretched out before me sent me quickly over the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters for you this time, don't say I don't spoil you! Actually I'm just itching to get it finished now. Hope you enjoy them.
> 
> As usual I don't have a beta so I love any feedback and advice!


	10. Loose Lips Might Sink Ships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day of discoveries, not all of them about the case.

_16 th February 1942_

This morning I fussed Sherlock a little more and was satisfied by the improvement to both his wounds and his cognitive functions. The deep sleep he had succumbed to had obviously done its job admirably, rejuvenating his damaged body, and he awoke eager to continue the investigation. He had a lucky escape last night, which I’m grateful for, but I’ll be damned if I let him go out in another air-raid.

Mycroft graced us with a cryptic visit before we departed on our search. He seems to have a preoccupation with Sherlock’s safety more pronounced than simple brotherly concern.

Sherlock groaned heavily as he entered the room. “Oh Good Heavens! What could you possibly want?”

“I have been following your progress closely and realise you are close to a… breakthrough.” Mycroft answered in his customary sneer.

That was rather ambitious I thought, to my mind we had no solid leads, when Sherlock replied it appeared he shared this sentiment. “Then your sources, brother, are incorrect.”

Mycroft raised a carefully sculpted eyebrow. “Nevertheless, I want to urge you to be wary, Sherlock. You must not get caught. I have certain powers to protect you, but my influence only stretches so far.”

The brothers were glaring daggers at each other and the silence between them was so thick I thought perhaps I was missing something. I had the strangest feeling they weren’t just talking about the case.

Mycroft broke the silence first. “Look…I am simply checking in on you, brother dearest. I understand you had an unfortunate encounter with a Messerschmitt last night. Well… if you do insist on flouting Air-Raid Precautions….”

“He is mending tolerably, thank you Mycroft.” I interjected, feeling Sherlock bristling beside me.

“No, thank _you_ , Doctor Watson. You seem to have done an admirable job of patching him up. I thought I might find him in a far worse state.”

  
“Enough!” Sherlock cried as he jumped up from his armchair. “You can clearly see that I am perfectly alright, so you can take your _concern_ back to whichever mahogany Spitfire* you happen to be flying at the moment!” He stalked of and slammed the door to his bedroom.

“John.” Mycroft nodded his head at me, then turned to leave, pausing at the door handle to look me in the eye and state, with only a hint of sincerity, “thank you for looking after him.” He left with a swish of his dark coat, leaving me even more confused.

We still had several premises to investigate so I managed to coax Sherlock out of his room with the promise of an early start. I insisted we go together this time, especially as the warehouses were much more likely to be occupied, it being a weekday.  The first two we tried were recently derelict and boarded up. We sneaked inside through a couple of broken boards but it was obvious we were the first people to have been there in a long while.

The next on our list was an electrical repair shop which looked more promising. It was a smallish building opening up onto a canal with a large courtyard in front that could easily have provided the brick dust on the man’s shoes as a thin powder of it covered the ground.  The outer door was locked so Sherlock pulled out his lock picking set and knelt down to work. It didn’t take him long to make the door click open and we started to look around. The front door opened onto room with a repair bench at one end and stacks of replacement parts and components the other.  Behind that was a large stockroom filled with radios, heaters, lights…and gramophones.

It seemed we might just have the right place. Now all we needed was an idea of how it related to the rest of the case. Sherlock located an office off to the side of the stockroom and beckoned me in. It was very untidy, piles of invoices and orders overflowed the desk, spilling onto the floor. We were just starting to root through it when the sound of a large vehicle arriving shocked us into stillness.

As we couldn’t possibly know how many people would be approaching or how dangerous they might be I quickly decided that our best solution would be to take cover and hide until we could establish if it was safe to confront them.

So I did the instinctive thing, the solider in me having already identified a largish store cupboard to the right of us, and pulled Sherlock in behind me pushing the door closed, save for a crack so we could hear.

As the door closed I realised I had made a tremendous mistake. The cupboard was far less spacious than I had anticipated and I found myself pressed up against the man I have been trying my upmost not to fantasize about. Our torsos were pressed tightly together from shoulder to ankle, facing towards each other. I was acutely aware of every inch of my body that was in contact with his and my body thrummed with want. I had the terrifying thought that I would soon expose my feelings in a very crude physical way, whether I wanted to or not.  I could already feel the heat swirling in my stomach as I looked up into his face.

I gave him a brief grimace and glanced around us to try and apologise for the situation we found ourselves in. He didn’t reply, just stood stock still presumably listening to assess the situation outside the door. But then, and I swear I didn’t imagine this, his eyes fixed on mine and I felt the most incredible tension twist around us. The room seemed to become even smaller and our bodies became further entwined. My heart pounded in my throat and I had to take a little gasp, even though I was trying to be as silent as possible. I found my eyes involuntarily drift down to Sherlock’s parted, curved lips and when I looked up again, to my complete shock, Sherlock had his eyes closed. Was this an invitation? Lust screamed through my body, not letting me think rationally in such an intimate and compromising situation. All self-control eradicated, I acted rashly. I brought my left hand up, grazing his chest and side as it moved up through the enclosed space and brought it to brush his cheek. I was breathing heavily, trying to keep myself under control but failing momentously.

My desire, however, was doused quickly and substantially, for as I reached up on my toes and leant forward to press my lips to his I felt his head shake under my hand, eyes still closed, and he mouthed “No. I’m can’t…I’m sorry…” and before I knew what was happening had thrown open the cupboard door to confront the man standing agape in his office.

I felt utterly wretched. How am I such a Neanderthal to let this happen? What is it about this man which has shredded the self-control that I have cultivated all of my life?  

I knew he was repelled by the thought, and yet my body insisted on interpreting his glance to be one of interest and his closing his eyes to be a sign of desire. More bloody likely a sign of embarrassment, John! Stuck in an enclosed space with a fairy! He was probably steeling himself not to deck you! Why can’t I just have a little damn self-control? God. It made me feel sick for the rest of the day just thinking about it.

More on this later, I could easily feel sorry for myself all day, but for now back to the warehouse and back to being mortified, suddenly exposed to an aggressively shouting electrician.

 **“** What on earth are you doing here? This is private property! Get out!” The man I presumed to be the owner of the business yelled in shock.

“I don’t think we will if it’s all the same Mr Rolston” replied Sherlock in a remarkably calm manner, presumably reading his name from the stack of papers littering the desk.

“How dare you?” He shouted in response, getting flustered and coming towards us. He grabbed a large piece of wood lying on the sideboard. I instinctively pulled out my service revolver and pointed it at him.

He dropped the wood and became submissive almost immediately, obviously not a particularly hardened criminal. His aggressive actions seem to stem from fear rather than a violent nature. He seemed quite glad for an excuse to give up the fight.

“Now, now, Mr Rolston. No need to panic. We’re not here to hurt you, although we wouldn’t hesitate if you give us cause. We simply want to know what happened to your associate, Mr Walters, was it?” Again Sherlock was reading from the papers on the desk.

“What happened to him? I honestly have no idea. Who are you? Do you know something? I haven’t seen him since Tuesday night. Where is he?”

“Oh, he’s dead.” Said Sherlock offhandedly. “Found with the remains of a gramophone cabinet. Care to tell me about that?”

“Oh, God!” Mr Rolston sunk back into the nearest chair his hands raking his face. I lowered my gun; he was clearly devastated. “I told him not to do it. I did! But he didn’t listen.”

“Do what?” I asked. He shook his head and did not speak further.

“Robbery, Mr Rolston. Really?” Sherlock’s sounded bored. I was impressed he continued the interview so calmly, as I trembled internally every time my eyes caught a glimpse of him. His whispered ‘no’ swirling around my head.

“Oh, God!” He said again. “It was all Brian’s idea, the robberies. I just run this place, honest like. But when he got hold of the ARP uniform he saw an opportunity and wouldn’t let me off.”

“He needed your van?”  
  
“Yeah, and the business to sell off the goods, you know…I’ve got a shop over in Hackney. Get the proper price for it, not hawking stuff down the pub.” He was rubbing his hands nervously and jiggling up and down in the chair.

“So he went out and stole whatever electrical equipment took his fancy, using the ARP badge as a cover, and you sold it in the shop.” I clarified and he nodded his agreement.

“Must have been a bit of a shock when you got that gramophone back in here.”

“Well, Brian didn’t understand, but I knew straight away. Was a transmitter, wasn’t it, hidden away. Spies, I said; we should report it to the police. But he said we should exploit them, get a bit more cash from it. I wasn’t convinced, I mean, I’m a patriot. Don’t want to ignore a traitor in our midst” The poor man looked scandalised at the thought, hands up in surrender, face contorted with anxiety. “But he insisted and of course I would have had to explain how I came to have the cabinet in the first place. Didn’t fancy winding up inside for handling stolen goods if I could help it.” 

Then Sherlock seemed to finally get bored with the meandering conversation. He took a step towards Mr Rolston and leant menacingly over the desk.  “Whose idea was the blackmail?”

“H-how did you know about that?”

“It was a possibility, but this confirmed it.” Sherlock held up a pad of blotting paper from the desk top. “I’ve made a study of reading from blotting paper, the newest ink leaves a rather distinct colour, to me at least. This part…” He pointed to a few smudges with an elegant finger, “says ‘we demand payment’, this part ‘advise the authorities’ and this….shows you signed it ‘Mr Black and Mr White’”

 “Brilliant!” I exhaled in awe, then stopped myself. It would hardly help my situation to continue to voice my thoughts of praise.

“Hmm.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought. “This is becoming much clearer and the fact that you signed it ‘Mr Black and Mr White’ might give us a way to find the person responsible. I need you to tell us exactly what your instructions were.”

Mr Rolston recalled for us what he could of the rest of the letter and explained how Mr Walters had returned to the Dancehall and left it taped to the skirting where the cabinet had stood.

 

We are now back at Baker Street preparing for the next phase. Sherlock explained that our agent must have found the blackmail letter and somehow identified Mr Walters as the sender, before finding and killing him to protect his identity. However, because the letter is signed from two people we are hoping the agent will turn up at the agreed drop point to try and dispatch the other half of the blackmail threat. I am dubious, but Sherlock says that he is obviously a cautious individual (attempting to disguise the bodies) and seeing as we’ve been poking around at the dancehall they must know that they are in danger of being found out. Better to risk neutralizing the whole threat, rather than leaving his existence known.  

He hasn’t mentioned our almost-kiss since, well…we’re still in the middle of the case and he’s made it quite clear that he doesn’t want to even acknowledge it. But I have the most awful feeling of having broken his trust and I’m not sure what will happen when we finally catch this agent. Perhaps when this is over, our partnership, and dare I say it friendship, will be too.To put things bluntly I have been terrified of losing everything that I have gained in the past few months.

Yes, I am using the past tense, not that I am no longer terrified, I still feel like I may have taken advantage of a situation that I misinterpreted and made Sherlock uncomfortable in the process. However I made a discovery this evening that has both shed light on the situation and proved to confuse me further.

I was tidying up the lounge when I found it. I had been attempting to file some of Sherlock’s papers, left in a pile on the floor when he fell asleep amongst them last night. I suppose I was trying to put my nervous energy to good use, trying to prove I am still of some use. The papers relate to this case, statements from witnesses, inventories, reports, that sort of thing. As I was trawling them a slim soft bound volume slid out from beneath two sheets. The pocket sized book was, on closer inspection, an antique copy of Plato’s _Phaedrus_ which is intriguing enough in its self. But the real shock I had was upon opening the first page to discover the world O’Dell scribbled in schoolboy pencil in the top corner of the inside cover.  

I have been trying desperately to remember exactly what Sherlock told me about the boy that first night at dinner. I got the impression then that he didn’t know the chap personally, and now here he is with a personal volume of his tucked in with his notes.

I don’t know what to conclude from this, it doesn’t make sense to me, but it does give me hope that there is some mystery about Sherlock Holmes still to discover and perhaps I can’t predict his actions as well as I think I can, if I can’t understand his past. I have resolved therefore not to waste any more time feeling sorry for myself. I am going to seize tomorrow by the horns and try to get to the bottom of this new mystery that has nothing to do with espionage. The mystery of O’Dell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Mahogany spitfire – slang relating to officers fighting the war behind their wooden desks rather than on the battlefield. 
> 
> Now I’m just teasing you! I feel like I’m playing case-fic trope bingo – trying to get in as many clichés as possible. Just as well these things inevitably end up with happy endings. (Two more chapters to go).


	11. Courage Under Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An air-raid forces Sherlock to open up to John about his past.

_18 th February 1942_

Oh my goodness, I don’t know where to start writing today. There is such a lot to convey and my emotions are running so wildly that my hands are shaking before I even begin.

I suppose I should attempt to calm myself and approach the events in a logical order. Start with yesterday morning which unfortunately started badly, as Sherlock was in a terrible mood. When I emerged from my room, tired and confused after a long night puzzling over the events of the previous day, I had found him cross-legged on the floor, hunched over his case notes. A bitter tension resonated about the room with Sherlock’s muscles tensed, gripping his hair in his hands and scowling dangerously. I dread to think how much of the night he had been brooding over the possible identity of the blackmailer.

“We’re still waiting to surprise them at the drop tomorrow night then?” I questioned, “No other leads?”

 “No.” Sherlock barked out, then rolled his neck back and growled at the ceiling. “Urgh! We shouldn’t have to go through this tedious process! It’s got to be one of the staff or patrons of the dancehall. I have all of their statements, why can’t I just _see it_?” He made a strangled noise and pummelled his head.

“Hush” I offered, putting my hand on his shoulder without thinking. “Don’t worry, you’ll get them. They’re obviously good at hiding, not going to get caught out by simple tricks…We just have to wait.” He shrugged my hand off and turned, scowling, onto his side away from me.

“You’re not helping.” He spat. “Go away!” Then rolled himself tightly up in a ball, his hands gripping his knees towards his chest, head tucked in the top.

I left him to it and began my breakfast routine. I’ve learnt not to take his sulks too personally, he is uncommonly sensitive when he thinks his brain power is compromised. No good pressing for any more information with him in that state. I’d just have to wait to get my answers – to the case, to his opinion of me, to the mysterious O’Dell. Everything was in his hands and all I could do was wait and try not to go mad with confusion and longing in the interim.

I had to wait until the late afternoon for Sherlock to stir and awake from his despair. He decided we might find some evidence of the blackmailer at Brian Walters house (now we at least had a name for the masquerading warden), and we had recovered his address at the warehouse. I think his motivation was more to get out of the house and feel like he was doing something, rather than from a conviction that there may be something of use there. But I needed something to occupy my time just as much as he did, so followed without question.

In the end the task was of little value. He rented a small room above a crumbling laundry with barely a stick of furniture to his name. His few belongings were scattered haphazardly around the room and the lingering smell of liquor hung about the walls.  There were no papers of any kind, or files pertaining to his work, so I suppose what we found in the office at the warehouse were his primary records.

When we had to conclude that it had been a wasted trip Sherlock let out a loud frustrated cry and kicked the wall in a sudden burst of temper. Afterwards he stood, forehead pressed against the faded wallpaper and tried to collect himself.

I let him have a moment to himself before silently moving to the doorway to show him that I thought we should leave. He brushed past me, down the stairs and onto the street without uttering a word. I was getting increasingly worried about his behaviour, it was often erratic, but rarely inexplicable, and this was not a dramatic expression of frustration or boredom, but seemed rather a muted sign of some internal struggle. He was angry at himself, rather than with the world, and I had not seen him so affected by a case before. I wondered what could be so affecting him about this one.

It was dark by the time we left the flat and cold enough for our breaths to escape in smoky puffs. I set off from the flat at a quick pace, keen to get back to the comforting presence of Baker Street, where perhaps Sherlock would be able to relax a little (although it hadn’t helped this morning.)

Unfortunately fate (or rather the combined air force of the Axis powers) intervened and we were only crossing the next residential street to Mr Walter’s decrepit flat when the air raid sirens began to sound.

Sherlock kept on walking unconcerned, but remembering my vow of only the other night I grabbed his arm , I’ll be damned if I let him get hurt again. This time I was determined we would _both_ seek shelter. I pulled him into the nearest alley which was positioned behind a row of gardens belonging to the neat terrace of family properties we had just been passing. There was a grumbling trudging movement along the line of gardens and families emerged from their back doors, huddled in blankets, carrying lamps, small bags of knitting and in one pensioner’s arms, a small kitten. One by one they all descended into the submerged metal shelters dug into the soil of their neatly tilled vegetable plots until silence once again fell on the street.

The garden nearest us had not received any pyjama clad visitors and the house seemed still, so I pulled Sherlock around the half-hearted fence and pushed him into the shelter. He complied for the most part although muttered considerably about how much he hated Anderson shelters. I silently agreed with him, thinking with longing about the warm, inviting atmosphere of the basement at Baker Street, but this cold, damp hole in the ground would serve its purpose – to keep us protected.  I shushed him by reminding him of his injury and how as a friend I didn’t want to see him hurt again.

He continued to mutter but I left him hunched over (far too tall to stand straight under the corrugated ceiling) pacing the entranceway whilst I poked around to try and find a light. I hoped the owners wouldn’t mind too much, but it didn’t seem they’d be back this raid and we are meant to be ‘all in it together’. I found a box of candles in a small cabinet, lit one then joined Sherlock who had retreated onto the blanket clad bed at the back of the shelter.

He was curled up into himself, knees under his chin and arms around his legs, protecting himself, although I’m not sure from what. I very much hoped it wasn’t me. I sat at the opposite end of the bed so there was a couple of feet space between us and although the light was dim I could see his body loose some of its tension.

It was then that the bombing started. A light rumbling at first then a progression in intensity from several directions. Sherlock started a commentary of which part of the capital they had reached but I silenced him when the place names became too familiar. The silence that stretched between us seemed an unbridgeable gulf. The nearing crashes and the awkward confusions of the past few days mingling with the darkness to create a new kind of tension between us. This wasn’t one that I could mistake for desire, it was fear. Primal and illogical.

The thought of spending the night held up in this tiny underground tin can in this state was too chilling for me to wallow in the feeling. I tried to affect my kindest ‘Dr Watson’ voice and asked gently “Sherlock….What’s been troubling you today? You seem terribly out of sorts.”

He simply snorted and said “I’m nothing of the kind,” with a finality that forced me to drop the subject and silence fell between us again.

Crash! A bomb exploded much closer than any of the others, catching even Sherlock off guard. The unexpected noise startled us both and in the confined space my instinct was to reach out and grab whatever comfort I could. Sherlock responded in the same way and we found ourselves pressed together, my hands gripping Sherlock’s leg with his hands pressed over mine.

We stopped dead the moment we realised and stared deeply at each other in the candlelight. The tension changed instantly. No longer fear, but the dangerous, prickling heat that I had felt in the cupboard in the warehouse office.

“I found something last night, when I was tidying your papers.” I blurted out. He looked at me, surprise and confusion arching his brows. I swallowed my nervousness and surprise at my own bravery, then continued in a strained voice. “A small book. Poetry…uh…Plato.”

“Oh.” Sherlock looked away but his hands stayed pressed to mine so I could feel the way he tensed further.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I pressed, gently trying to get him to open up.

  
“What is there to say?”  


“Well…the name inside. O’Dell. That was the name of the boy you told me about, the one at your school….”  The pouf, the nancy, I wanted to say. The one you told me laboured under a ‘delusion of love’.

“Yes?”  He attempted an air of indifference, but through our connected hands I could feel the tension coursing through him.

  
“Well… I have to ask myself what you might be doing with his book?” My voice was light, but the implication was not, and it fell heavily onto the tense air of the shelter.

“He gave it to me.” His gaze was still turned away, his response clipped.

“I realise that.”

“Do you.”  He turned to face me for the first time, scorn now radiating from his features. “I wonder what else you think you realise?” He started to wriggle uncomfortably and retreat backwards pulling his hand from my grasp. I backed away too to give him some space and scooted along the bed until my back hit the cold metal side of the shelter.

Another bomb hit, closer this time. We both jumped and winced as the sound reverberated along the street.

“Sherlock…”

“No, go on. Tell me.” He spat.  “Tell me what you think you’ve deduced.”

I paused for a moment to think about how best to phrase my thoughts, and when I spoke it was with the hesitancy and tact used when talking someone down from a dangerous situation.  “Well…I think he was your friend…and maybe that’s why you don’t let anyone become close to you…because when he left like that… under those circumstances… you felt abandoned and it hurt.”

Crash! Another bomb. Dust and soil cascaded down from the ceiling, covering the shelter in a fine layer of dirt.

Sherlock hugged himself with both arms, as he replied. “As ever you theorise without all the facts and come to the wrong conclusions.” He was sitting completely ridged on the tiny bed. Legs pressed together, hands balled in his lap. Tension and stiffness radiated out from him like he was steeling himself up for a fight.  “He was not my friend, John. I told you I have none and up until now that has always been true… Even at school I was not liked. I found everyone so tedious.”

“So?...” I turned on the bed so that I was facing him, giving him my full attention.

 “O’Dell was dull, but he was also appealing in certain ways and happened to feel the same about me.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I was not his friend, John. I was the other boy.”

Crash! Blast! Crack! A series of bomb blasts this time, and the ground shook around us, mimicking the force of my shock at Sherlock’s confession.

The other boy! He was caught with O’Dell, in a ‘compromising situation’- one that O’Dell was expelled for!  Did he meet the same fate, was he punished, expelled? Publically shamed? No wonder he had been so reluctant to discuss the matter. What did this mean for us? Hope, horror, longing and shock swirled in my system, battling for dominance. I didn’t know which of my warring thoughts to vocalise first but as always Sherlock was one step ahead.

“You have guessed correctly, I was also found by the master, punished and exiled. Mycroft thankfully intervened to save my name from the papers but it is not exactly a secret that I was involved in the incident. A couple of Lestrade’s colleagues have voiced to me in no uncertain terms their disgust at having a notorious pervert on the team.” He shuddered and tried to compose himself once more. I had the sudden desire to throttle the woman I had met on that first case, whose warning seemed so much more sinister in light of this history.

Sherlock continued his narrative, now he had started he seemed determined to see the story through until the end.  “I had to leave the school, not intolerable, I had no friends in any case. I was home-schooled after that – at least, until I went to Cambridge.

“Did you keep in touch with him? O’Dell, I mean.”

“No! Why would I? He meant next to nothing to me…At the time the desire was an itch that I chose to scratch, nothing more. Afterwards I didn’t understand why anyone would risk so much for something I could easily live without, I didn’t realise that some feeling existed that I hadn’t experienced.  But how I feel now…” He gazed up at me and my heart fluttered painfully, seeing the emotion there. “…I know that I would risk anything for it.”

He stared at me with such vulnerability, I’d never seen him so lost. I reached out my hand to reclaim his and electricity fizzed as a moment of understanding passed between us. My brain was scrambled with the weight of his confession, my growing hope of requited feelings and the pounding of the bomb blasts which suddenly sounded far too close.

An awful crash came so near that the shelter shock violently and we could hear shrapnel clanking on the metal roof as it fell from the sky. The noise made me wretch and pitch forward. Sherlock grabbed me tightly to stop me falling off the narrow cot and then I found myself in his embrace, our lips crashing as painfully as the bombs overhead. The feeling of certain death bearing down on us had made us desperate and reckless. We grabbed each other, clinging so tightly, fists in clothing, twisting, grappling with each other on the small handmade bed.

Reluctantly I pulled away a fraction to seek his consent. “Are you sure you want this?” At which he let out a great sigh and rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be an idiot, John.”

 This was such a Sherlockian response that I couldn’t help but smile, although it didn’t completely quash my fears.  “But you’ve been so reluctant, so opposed to the idea…”   
  
“I have been opposed to it since I was caught in that dorm with O’Dell. The shame, John. The way everyone looked at me, the punishments.” Sherlock grasped my face with both hands, cradling my cheeks to force me to look into his eyes. “Until I met you I couldn’t begin to believe it was worth the risk, so I decided to not indulge. It doesn’t mean I don’t desire you with every trembling inch of my body!” 

He was correct about the trembling, we were both shaking uncontrollably, a mixture of fear, shock and exhilaration.

He must have been able to sense how afraid I still was, as worried as I was about this development ruining everything we have built, because he continued to reassure me. “I’ve been trying to ignore this as usual, but I simply can’t. I don’t know what will happen but I can’t ignore it any longer. You are all I can think about.” He started pounding his head with his fist. “I normally would have caught this spy days ago, but I just can’t think with all of these emotions!”

This was all I needed apparently, an acknowledgement that he had been thinking about this for some time and that this needed to happen for us to be able to function again, neither of us wracked by crushing pining aches clouding our days. As further bombs shattered the ground around us, I grabbed at Sherlock and didn’t let go.  We didn’t talk much, nothing coherent anyway, a few shared offerings of consent, acknowledgments of mutual need and moans of desperate pleasure. It was liberating in a way to be able to be as noisy as we liked. An animalistic howl matching the outside, cries drowned out by the rages of the raid. It was a little different to sneaking into the back of the triage area with Andrew after dark, trying to be silent so our moans couldn’t be heard in the still desert air.

I can’t remember the details clearly. My memory is hazy with the crash of bombs falling around us, the candlelight, and the heady touch of skin on skin.  Emotions, sensations and muttered gasps fusing with a flurry of hands, limbs, lips, crashes, gasps. Too many senses engaged at once, our bodies overwhelmed with information. The sky was falling, it felt like the end of everything and also the beginning. A phoenix rising from the flames of a burning London. A love born of fire.

The solitary candle we had found shed little light but when I saw his face slack and thrown back in ecstasy I knew that I shared his sentiments – for the chance for these moments, I would risk anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last! Hope them getting together was worth waiting for.
> 
> What do you think should happen now? What is their future? Can they be together? I have an inkling what I would like to do, but I'd love your opinions!

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments, whatever they say! Let me know if you think the journal format isn't working, i'm not 100 percent convinced about it, but I wanted to try something new!
> 
> If you enjoyed this check out my other works and my tumblr (barbarismbeginsatholmes.tumblr.com) for updates, illustrations and pics.


End file.
